Postal
by TheJesusFreak777
Summary: Hermione has always been afraid since the war, to the point of being terrified to check the mail. But can she realize she has to find courage?


**So I wrote this for **the dragon and the rose**. Please review! **

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The package on the porch seems ominous. Threatening, even.

We don't get mail via the postal service. We get mail through owls, and we never get it via Muggle trucks and cars and mail carriers. So yes, the package is ominous, because it was delivered by a postal worker.

Ron and Harry are both away in Amsterdam, tracking down a particularly dark Norwegian witch on the run. She'd caused carnage in Scandinavia, and the Ministry had finally decided on doing something, and our Ministry sent Aurors to help. So both Ron and Harry were gone for now, and I don't care much for minacious boxes, so my plan originally was to let one of them open it, but I'd hear no end of it from Ron. So the parcel sits on the porch for a day, two days, three, and then I shake myself and go outside to get it.

For a long time I stand, looking down at it, uncertain as to open it or not. It could be a toxic potion, or a toxic gas brewed as a potion, or a toxic bottle of wine or butterbeer or mead or such. It could be a wand ready to hit me with an Unforgivable Curse. It could be some kind of biological warfare product, like dragon pox, or spattergroit, or a Muggle contagion, like Ebola or mycotoxins or cholera. It could be a anything, really.

Before any of this happened, I would have opened the box and not had a second thought on the matter. But now I rarely go out, and I jump at every sound, and I wake up screaming, Ron whispering in my ear that everything is fine, and that I am alive, and he is alive, and that we are safe. But now that all this has happened, I stand over the box for ten minutes, thirty, an hour, before I tap it with my foot to make sure it doesn't combust or something, and when it doesn't, I pick it up very gingerly. It's probably six kilograms. Heavy. Large, too. Not a wand.

I take the parcel inside, holding it away from me so in the case it does explode, it won't damage me as badly as if I were cradling it. I set it on the kitchen table. Step away. Stare at it.

I'd never been like this before. Other people might find my precaution laughable. I find it necessary. And now I was being even more stupid. I shouldn't have even brought it in the house. I shouldn't even be this close to it.

A week ago I had found out. Just a week. It was ridiculous for me to risk this-risk everything-to open the mail. I should wait, just wait, until Ron gets home. Which will be later tonight. I'll wait until Ron gets home, and then I'll open the box, and at least then if it's dangerous-well, we'll be together, won't we?

A week ago-just a week ago-I found out. And here I am, with a three-day-old box that could very possibly be a bomb.

When I get like this, Ron's always here. He always knows what to do. He'd hold me close and I would fall asleep, listening to his heartbeat, strong and steady, and he would tell me to ignore the box, that the box is just a box, and then he would open it just to show me, and we would both laugh.

But I know better. It's a Jack-in-the-box set for a time that I don't want. And Ron isn't here now.

He'll be here. He'll be here in a few hours. He's been gone for two weeks, but he'll be back tonight.

I sit as far away from the box as I can. On the couch. Outside on the porch. Out on the patio. I don't want to be around it. I haven't even gotten close enough to read the label. It's probably nothing. But Ron's the only one who could convince me it's nothing, so I wait.

I drum my fingers across the table. It's cold out, but I have a jacket. It's warm inside, but there's a box. If I were waiting in there, I'd be waiting for the deadline. Out here, I'm waiting on my husband. At least, that's what I tell myself.

I am afraid, and I am pathetic, and I am a coward for not doing what I can do without Ron.

I warm my hands with my breath. It's February. Snow covers the ground. I could be inside, and warm. But instead I'm out hiding in the winter.

I'd never be like this before. Before, I'd willingly go to fight my fears.

I open the door and head back inside. Stand over the kitchen table. It's late. Ron will be home soon. But I shouldn't use that as an excuse.

Scarcely daring to breathe, I sit down and cut the tape off of the box. The cardboard makes a scratching sound. My pulse skyrockets and I stop for a moment. When nothing happens, I continue. Plastic wrap and styrofoam. I pull them out, revealing a cauldron.

I look for the return address, but I can't find one. I pull out the cauldron and study it. It's copper, one of the finest brewing cauldrons available. Potion masters would pay a lot of money for something like this.

So...why would someone send me something this expensive in the mail, of all ways?

I pull it out of the packaging and set it down on the counter. Inside, a white envelope seems to glow in the dim lights. And written on it read: For Miss Hermione Granger-Weasley.

I open it up, bemused.

The will of the late Professor Severus Snape has only recently been discovered, and it has come to our attention that a cauldron was left in your inheritance.

I set it down and put a hand on my head, trying to understand. Snape...left me...a cauldron?

I empty out the rest of the box and find a second envelope. This one is stained with what looks like tea but smells of brandy. The handwriting is scrawled and messy, like it was done in a hurry, but slanted. I drop it when I recognize it. Snape. It's been five years since the war ended, and I can still recognize his handwriting. With shaky hands I open it, my fingers tearing the paper.

Miss Granger-

You must be aware I never really appreciated your presence in my class. You were a good student, but your mind was often preoccupied. I never quite appreciated how good of a student you were until you were gone. Very rarely do students like you come around. I might be cynical, but I am intelligent, and I can observe what you are. I wish you well in your future. You deserve one. Use the cauldron for brewing only elaborate potions and draughts, and clean it regularly.

-Professor Severus Snape

I stare at it, tears stinging my eyes. I hear the door open in the other room, and I quickly stuff the letters in my pockets and head briskly to the living room. Ron wipes his feet on the doormat and stops when he sees me and wraps his arms around me.

"You okay, 'Mione?" he asks softly.

"I missed you," I manage.

He kisses me on the forehead. "I missed you too, 'Mione."

"I got the mail today, Ron."

He gives a weird, strangled laugh. "That's great."

"It really is," I agree. I push the thoughts of the package and Snape to the back of my mind. "There's other news, too, Ron."

"What?" he asks, kissing me.

"Last week I got some news." I take a deep breath. He stares at me, worry clouding his gaze.

"Ron, we're going to have a baby."

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**So I know this is probably not what **the dragon and the rose **had in mind but it was the only plot I could get motivated for what I was supposed to write. And this isn't the typical Hermione-most of the time she's portrayed a fighter, and that the war hardened her-but I wanted to try a different take on that. Please review! **


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